‘Nonsense,’ he says crisply. ‘They’re your parents and they want you to feel at home.’
‘People who are genuinely at home help out with the housework.’
‘You’ve got an excuse, though. You’re not well.’
I stare at him, perplexed. ‘My ankle, you mean? That’s hardly an illness. And don’t try to say I had a concussion too. Because the doctor said I was fine.’
Dominic looks at me, silent for once, and then fiddles unnecessarily with his knife and fork. I get the impression he’s annoyed with himself. As though he’s said something he didn’t intend to. Or wasn’t supposed to.
‘Wait,’ I say slowly. ‘You think I’m . . . ill?’
‘Forget it.’
‘I don’t want to forget it.’
‘Catherine, please don’t make a scene,’ he says gently, but with an odd tension in his face. ‘Remember that it’s Christmas, yeah? Peace and goodwill to all men. I just meant you’ve been a little down lately. Anyway,’ he adds, ‘you shouldn’t worry so much what your parents think. You need to be your own person.’
I want to say more, but Jasmine and my parents parade into the room at that moment, their arms full of steaming food bowls. Dominic jumps up to help, but I just sit and stare at the turkey until my father twitches off the foil and starts to carve it up, his long knife flashing in and out of the white breast.
We eat lunch without saying much, though Dad insists on regaling us with a story about the Christmas Eve when he and Mum first met. They got stuck in an elevator together in New York for over twelve hours. I know the story well and don’t listen properly, smiling dutifully in all the right places instead.
Dominic, to whom the story is new, listens with rapt attention, and laughs out loud at the punchline: ‘So after that we had to get married, of course.’
Even Jasmine grins, though I’m sure she will have heard it before. But then, my bubbly cousin is far better company than me. More sociable, more animated. Constantly smiling. Smiling at my husband.
‘How did you two meet?’ she asks Dominic, glancing at me.
‘Well, it wasn’t quite as dramatic as that.’ He laughs, brushing my fingertips across the table. ‘Was it, baby?’
‘Not dramatic at all,’ I mutter.
I see the flash in his eyes. ‘I was leafleting round here on a Saturday morning, on my bicycle, and managed to drop the bloody thing on one of Ellen’s pots—’
‘It was a very expensive terracotta herb pot,’ Mum says, interrupting, ‘housing a delicate young fennel. You squashed the poor thing flat.’
‘I offered to pay,’ Dominic says mildly.
My mum makes a face at him.
‘Leafleting?’ Jasmine repeats, looking puzzled.
‘Save our NHS,’ I say, not looking at him. ‘He was knocking on doors and stuffing leaflets through letter boxes. Wearing a bloody T-shirt with “Save Our NHS” across it, and a matching baseball cap. After he’d rung the bell and apologised for the damage he’d done, he had the nerve to ask me to the pub with the other activists; bored me half to death with his endless slogans.’
‘But as you can see, slogans or not, Catherine was smitten at first glance,’ Dominic tells Jasmine, his tone rich with satisfaction.
My dad gets up and refills my glass with champagne. ‘Dominic?’ he asks politely, holding out the bottle.
‘Not for me, thanks, Robert,’ he says, covering his glass. ‘Night shift, remember?’
After the meal, we move to the sofas in the living room to open our presents. My parents have bought us a large, silver-framed, oval mirror for our bedroom. It looks like an antique – and is, Mum is keen to tell me. Early Victorian, apparently. I show it to Dominic, who is deeply impressed, and we both thank her.
Dominic has bought me a gorgeous new dressing gown: grey silk, with pink and yellow butterflies on the back.
I kiss him lingeringly as a thank you, and see the heat in his eyes, hurriedly disguised when my father glances our way.
Jasmine exclaims in delight, unwrapping her gift. ‘I love charm bracelets,’ she says, thanking my mother, who is watching her fondly. ‘Thank you so much. This is perfect.’
I’ve bought my parents tickets to a West End musical of their choice. I can see Dad isn’t too excited but I know Mum will love a night out in town. And she adores musical theatre.
I unwrap my last present, which is from Dad. It’s a fine, leather-bound, illustrated edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
My heartbeat seems to snag on something.
It was Rachel who enjoyed those old Lewis Carroll novels.
Not me.
‘Thank you,’ I say huskily, and try not to meet his eye.
Dad smiles. ‘You’re welcome.’
A genuine mistake, I decide. Not an attempt to wound me. I put the book with my other presents to be taken upstairs later. Maybe I should try reading it. Find out why Rachel enjoyed it so much. And it is a beautiful object.
I insist on making a pot of coffee for everyone after the wrapping paper debris has been cleared away, and this time nobody rejects my offer. Too full to move, I suspect. Dominic slips out to join me in the kitchen, but hinders more than helps, his arm constantly round my waist, bumping my hip and kissing me whenever I stand still for long enough.
‘Stop it,’ I tell him, mock-sternly.
‘I can’t help it, I find you edible today,’ he whispers in my ear, glancing back to make sure we’re still alone. ‘It’s your high heels, and this dress. It makes you look amazing.’
‘I am amazing,’ I say tartly.
‘Like a sex bomb.’
‘You have a one-track mind.’
‘I told you, it’s this dress.’
‘And last night, in bed? I wasn’t wearing anything then.’
‘God, you tease.’ He groans in mock torment. ‘Better give me that tray before I bend you over the kitchen table. Can you imagine your dad’s face if he walked in?’
I grin and allow Dominic to carry through the tray of cups and a silver coffee pot, while I follow.
‘I like your arse in those jeans,’ I say, sotto voce, and am rewarded by him wiggling his behind suggestively as he turns through the living room doorway.
Dad looks at us suspiciously, but I merely smile and sit down again. Dominic’s right. This may be Dad’s home, but he invited us to live here, we didn’t invite ourselves. And I need to stand up to Dad’s disapproval. Not let him constantly intimidate us into a meek acceptance of his old-fashioned rules.
Besides, if I can’t flirt with my husband at Christmas, when can I?
Jasmine is standing by the window, looking out at the lengthening shadows. Dusk falls so quickly at this time of year.
‘That was a delicious lunch, thank you,’ I say to my parents, watching as Dominic pours us each a cup of steaming coffee. ‘And the presents are fantastic. But I haven’t forgotten what we talked about last night.’
They look at each other warily.
‘You said I could see Rachel’s ashes.’
There’s a sudden silence in the room.
Dominic stops pouring and looks up at me. Then he continues what he was doing, but his smile has gone.
‘I’d like to see her ashes today, please,’ I say as firmly as I can. ‘And maybe I could scatter them in the garden under the magnolia tree, if you don’t object.’ I pause. ‘Before the light goes.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea—’ Mum begins hesitantly, but Dad cuts across her with a gesture that looks almost angry.
‘No, if that’s what Catherine wants. Maybe it is a good idea.’
‘Robert?’ Mum sounds almost scared.
He ignores her and gets up without accepting the cup of coffee Dominic is holding out to him.
‘Come on,’ he says calmly, ‘let’s do it right now. Like you say, Cat, the light goes quickly this time of year.’
My mother stares at him, a blind panic on her face now. ‘Robert, no . . .’
‘Be quiet, Ellen.’
Mum raises a fluttering hand to her mouth.
Dad looks at me, an uncompromising line to his mouth, then nods at my high heels. ‘Better put some wellies on. It’s muddy outside. You can borrow a pair, if necessary.’ He leaves the room. ‘I’ll fetch the urn.’
I glance at Dominic, who touches my arm.